


I Want a Key to Your House

by Colourcodedbinders



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Patrick Brewer is a good friend, and each other, and i love them, i guess, stevie-centric (ish), they both love david
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29872533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colourcodedbinders/pseuds/Colourcodedbinders
Summary: He extends a hand towards her, and she takes it for a moment despite herself as she crawls out of the vehicle. Something tells her that he maybe needs the reassurance more than she hates giving it.“So when you say ‘look at this place’ with you…”“I mean that this is a house tour, yes. With the interest of potentially buying.”ORThey're selling the cottage that David really likes, and Patrick really, desperately wants to make sure Stevie likes the place before he can tell David anything.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer & Stevie Budd, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose
Comments: 23
Kudos: 151





	I Want a Key to Your House

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! Hi, hello, folks. 
> 
> This one was completely self-indulgent, and escaped me about half-way through in terms of plot, but it makes me feel many things, so you're allowed to read it too. Can you tell that the Patrick/Stevie friendship has overtaken me a little? 
> 
> Set some time between 6x05 and 6x13. Title from Ben Platt's "Share Your Address." 
> 
> Thank you, above everyone else, to Rachael, who had to deal with me sending her screenshot upon screenshot of unfinished text, and never once complained.

Today is her first day off in about a week and a half, and Stevie had had very solid plans, this morning, of spending the bitch curled up on her couch. She’d planned on getting a little too drunk and simply _passing out_ , nursing a deep, buzzing sort of ache that runs through muscles she didn’t even know she fucking had until Mr. Rose unleashed his new vigorous motel-restoration plan upon her and Roland. In all her years, she’s _never_ felt pain like she had when she finally put that toilet brush down, yesterday. Would it be too dickish to leave the business, again? 

(Yes, she had decided ultimately, it would, and she happens to quite like the status of co-owner of the _Rosebud Motel_ Group. Still - no amount of pride and satisfaction could take away her desperate need for a full day of lounging. Today was gonna be her _well-deserved_ full day of lounging.)

She’d gotten all ready for it, too. There was a bottle of whiskey neatly set atop her coffee table, a couple packs of chips she’d bought in case she got hungry during the day, and even a pile of DVDs she’d pulled out from the stack she and David had collected over the years. (And if _Pretty Woman_ was the one she’d pulled aside to watch, then that was absolutely no one’s business but hers. David never needs to know.) 

It all gets sidetracked, however, when Patrick excitedly knocks on her apartment door, all dressed up and sporting a wide grin, and demands that she change and follow him to his car immediately. At first, she’d considered smashing the bottle of alcohol over his head, but ultimately, she decides that he isn’t worth it - alcohol isn’t free, even for a successful business owner like her, and, besides, spending a day with Patrick isn’t the worst thing she could be doing. Maybe after he runs his little errand, she could convince him to come back here. They could talk about how fucking stupid musical theatre is. 

She doesn’t say any of that to him, though. Instead, she asks: “Why didn’t you ask me if I had plans, Patrick? Maybe I’m too busy to hang out with you.”

Patrick looks down at her outfit, and she could punch him in the throat for the way he smirks at the sight of the big orange stain at the knee of her fleece pants. When his eyes meet hers again, he’s grinning. She kind of hates him for it, and she knows he can tell, the little shit. 

“Oh, no, for sure,” Patrick nods solemnly. “I didn’t notice, sorry. You should’ve told me you were on your way for a hot date. I like to know these things, Stevie.”

“Fuck off,” she smiles at him. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Is that why you didn’t text before knocking at my apartment at this ungodly hour?”

“It’s 10 o’clock, and I was trying to make a grand romantic gesture.”

 _God_ he’s such a little shit. She likes him so much. She opens the door wider, stepping aside and gesturing for him to come in. “Don’t even try touching the booze; I’ve marked it. I’ll go change.”

“No you haven’t,” he casually answers, and she flips him off before walking over to her closet. 

She picks out the first pair of pants she finds, with her blue and white plaid shirt, the one that wrinkles the least. She spends maybe all of five minutes getting ready, because Patrick doesn’t deserve any more effort out of her, and walks over to join him near her couch. He looks up, eyes twinkling in that stupid way they do when he’s proud of himself for something, and points towards the DVD case she had set next to her player. 

“If you ever tell him, I will murder you so fast, Brewer,” she says, and, grabbing her keys, motions for him to follow her out the front door. He does so immediately, never wiping the stupid smirk off his face, and she quite literally kicks his ass as they make their way to the parking lot, just because she can. 

“So,” she starts for perhaps the tenth time once they’re on the road. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see when we get there,” he answers easily, as he has every time, like it doesn’t matter, except he’s smiling like an idiot, but his fingers are drumming just a little _too_ enthusiastically to Shania Twain. She knows something’s up, because as much as Stevie hates the fact, she _knows_ Patrick. She knows him inside and out, backwards and front. She knows he likes corn on his pizza like some sort of psychopath. She knows that the reason he won’t grow his hair out, despite David’s begging, is that it forces him to revisit a particularly tough high school locker room memory he’d shared with her during _Cabaret_ rehearsals. She knows that he hates horror movies but will watch them with her, because she loves them and David doesn’t. She knows that his favourite colour isn’t blue, despite his unfortunate wardrobe; it’s actually green. 

She knows that he’s both _really fucking excited and really fucking nervous_ , right now, about something that he won’t share with her until they reach their destination. 

"I’ll just text David and ask him to tell me,” she jokingly threatens, expecting him to dismiss her again, the way he has for the past five minutes. Instead, she’s surprised to see his fingers freeze on the wheel, shoulders tensing up.

_Oh?_

“Patrick,” she attempts, “does David not know where you’re taking me?”

When he faces her, there’s a hint of hesitation in his eyes she still isn’t used to seeing there, after all this time. “It’s kind of a surprise? I wanted to go over some details and then, uh, tell him after the wedding. He’d get overwhelmed right now, I think.”

“What?”

“Just,” he sighs, “just let me take you there, okay? You’ll understand as soon as we arrive. It’s just a few streets.”

She nods. For a second, they’re both silent, and then Patrick’s fingers start drumming again. 

They pull into a driveway, as promised, just a few streets down. Patrick stops the car in front of a house that seems vaguely familiar but that Stevie can’t quite place, just yet. He shuts the engine off, he checks his phone once, and then makes a move to open the door.

“Are we meeting someone?” she asks, unbuckling her seatbelt. “I know I said I’d be maid of honour, but you really should have asked Alexis to come with you, here. I have no clue what I’m even -”

“It’s not for the wedding, okay?” he interrupts, walking over to let her out of the passenger side. He looks at the house, breathing in with intent in a way she knows means serious business, letting his gaze linger on it for far longer than she’s comfortable with before turning to her, again. “I need you to come look at this place with me.”

He extends a hand towards her, and she takes it for a moment despite herself as she crawls out of the vehicle. Something tells her that he maybe needs the reassurance more than she hates giving it. 

“So when you say ‘look at this place’ with you…”

“I mean that this is a house tour, yes. With the interest of potentially buying.” They make their way to the front door, and Stevie lets herself look around, at the pristinely kept yard that surrounds them. There’s a tree on the far side, right where the lawn separates from the neighbours’, and its thin branches are lined with tiny white flowers that she can’t recognize. 

She bets David would recognize them. Those could be David’s tiny white flowers, someday. 

_Holy shit._

That thought, sitting inside her, is warmer and brighter than the morning sun shining on the cottage. The only thing that beats it is the hand Patrick puts on her arm as they reach the front door. 

“We drove by it a few times,” he says, and she catches him looking at the tree, too. “David kept saying it reminded him of Kate Winslet’s cottage -”

“- from the Holiday,” she finishes for him, finally able to place the flash of recognition she’d felt when they drove over. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. For a second, they’re both silent, the heavy weight of feelings too large to be shared pushing the words back down from their throats. She reaches a hand out towards Patrick, unaware of where she wants it to land, but her body is compelled, suddenly, begging to call for him. It’s a weird feeling; she’s never quite felt it before, not even with David. What she and Patrick have is a friendship she isn’t familiar with. It’s kinder, and softer, and under the sunlight, surrounded in every direction by a shared future that stretches out before them, she thinks she might be starting to get used to this kind of love too, a little bit. She thinks she might be getting used to having Patrick. She thinks that maybe this is what her world was always meant to look like. David and Patrick, and this cottage, and maybe her. God, she hopes Patrick can’t tell what she’s thinking. He’d never let her live it down.

Patrick finally rings the doorbell. “A few times after he’d pointed it out, I, uh… I came over and asked them to call me if they ever wanted to sell.”

“And they called?” she asks, though the answer is very clear as an elderly black lady, short, inviting, and wrapped in a white knit shawl, immediately flashes a smile at them. 

“Sweet Patrick,” she softly says, “come on in.”

“Thank you, Esthelle,” he answers, and motions for Stevie to step inside first. “This is my best friend,” he starts, motioning towards Stevie, and she refuses to let her breath catch in her throat the way it threatens to. “And, uh, I thought I’d bring her with me?”

Esthelle turns a fond gaze towards Stevie, then, looking her up and down with the look she only remembers Nana Budd sporting, back when she used to dress little Stevie up for recitals they both knew her parents wouldn’t attend. “Lovely,” she breathes. Stevie either wants to squirm under her gaze, or cry. Maybe both. “You dears making sure it’s up to your standards before you bring the husband over?”

“No one knows David’s tastes like she does.”

God, she’s going to kill Patrick. The man never lets up. How is it even possible for a person to be this fucking…. _Nice?_

_How is it possible for a person this fucking nice to be calling her his best friend?_

He’s guiding her inside before she can rationalize an answer, with a solid hand between her shoulder blades. Esthelle leads them in, past a short corridor, right up to a large, open space that Stevie takes to be the living room. A long, tasteful island separates it from an adjacent dining room, and to the other side, there lay two adjoined staircases: one leading upstairs, and one to the basement. Along the widest wall, a large glass sliding door gives a full view into the cottage’s backyard, and, holy shit, there’s a _pond_ there, lined with lily pads and flowers that she knows her best friend will lose his complete mind over. David, her best friend, that is. Not Patrick. Patrick probably can’t tell the flowers apart, either.

“I thought I’d run the place by you before bringing it up to David,” Patrick says next to her, gaze set on the same bed of flowers she’d been eyeing. “See if you even think it’s up to his standards.”

“Well, for starters, I have some serious issues with the colour scheme,” she jokes. When his eyes meet hers, they’re gross and fond and full of affection and she really, really wants to knock two of his teeth out for making her feel these things without her explicit consent. 

She was supposed to be drunk and watching a rom-com right now, dammit. Not picturing David’s future. Certainly not entertaining her sudden need to slot _herself_ into Patrick and David’s future. 

The conversation with Mr. Rose from yesterday vaguely swirls around in her head, words about New York and headquarters and business operations and how she could move there, if she wanted to. She meets Patrick’s gaze again, and he’s smiling at her, of course he is, before Esthelle calls to them both as she steps towards the kitchen. 

She’d have to talk to Mr. Rose about that move. She can be a successful big city business woman whilst getting to witness her best friends build their future, right? Surely they wouldn’t mind having her around?

They step past the island, and Stevie finds herself in front of a kitchen that is, uh, perfect, as far as she’s concerned. She has fleeting thoughts about how David would definitely prefer a tiled backsplash over the solid, white painted wall - _god, what has she become?_ \- but doesn’t quite share them. After all, she’s not about to tell Patrick how to decorate his future home before he’s even finalized wanting to buy the place. It’s none of her business, and she’s sure he wouldn’t appreciate the unwanted advice. As they step towards the staircase leading upstairs, however, Patrick asks her what she thinks of potential grey tile work on the back wall, lined right above the counter, and she can’t help but laugh when she answers that taupe would probably match David’s vision better. Patrick rubs a hand over her shoulder and tells her she’s amazing. She pinches him on the bicep in retaliation. It’s nice. 

Esthelle leads them upstairs, down the hall, to the laundry room, bathroom, and then to the master bedroom. It’s a large, square space, with sunlight filtering through a set of sheer white curtains, and Stevie imagines David, cup of coffee already set at his bedside, waking up every morning to the sight of the unfiltered light. The thought softens her up more than she’d ever admit. The en-suite bathroom that comes with it, she thinks, is a solid cherry on top.

The next room is slightly smaller, with two large windows that overlook the street they’d driven up on. Esthelle is talking about something Stevie doesn’t quite register, while Patrick is sagely nodding along to her every word, like some kind of nerd who actually pays attention when he’s being spoken to. When Esthelle finally leaves them to look around on their own, Patrick walks up to her, deep in thought.

“Shelves or racks?” he asks. 

“What?”

“David’s clothes,” he clarifies, “I’m assuming you’ll want them out of the Love Room.” There’s a mischievous glint in his eye, like it _amuses_ him to know that Stevie’s slept with his future husband. It only makes him even more unbelievably ridiculous. Who willingly spends time with their fiancé’s ex, and calls them their best friend? Shouldn’t he at least be _a little_ sour mentioning David having sex with someone else? Weirdo. She hates him. 

Patrick doesn’t seem to be privy to her internal monologue, however, as he awaits a response. She simply nods.

“Figured. So, when we move them out of there, we’ll probably put them in this room. You think he’d prefer shelves or racks?”

“Probably a few of both,” she says, her voice coming out weaker, bathed in more emotion than she’d intended it to. She walks back towards the hallway, hoping Patrick hadn’t noticed. 

He’s a little fucker, though, so he had. Of course he had. She can tell because of the little crease that appears on his forehead while he looks at her. He contemplates something, for a second, then, before turning to Esthelle. His stupid, brilliant smile is on display, and he comes to stand right next to Stevie once more. “Hey, Esthelle, uh, do you mind if we finish looking at this last room on our own? We’ll join you in the basement, if that’s okay.”

“Of course, dears. Take your time.” With a nod, she makes her way downstairs, leaving the two of them alone before the entrance to the third and final room on the top floor. Patrick motions for her to walk in first, wordlessly. She complies. 

This room is the smallest of the three, but not by much. Like the first one, it has a large window, sunlight filtering through a set of blinds she knows for a fact David will want to burn as soon as he can. The small walk-in closet along the inner wall closes into sliding mirrors. It’s a simply designed, unfurnished space. It’s charming.

“What’s this room gonna be for?” Stevie asks. “A study? A guest room?”

“Guest room,” Patrick answers. “What do you think of it? We could do a bed and a dresser, maybe a vanity. Whatever you think works best.”

“Don’t ask me; ask David.”

Patrick laughs, honest-to-god laughs _at_ her, for some reason, and only seems to calm down when he registers her face, as if only then realizing that she isn’t joking.

“I’m sure he’ll let you decorate your own space however you want, Stevie. At least to a certain point. He might disagree with a lot of your choices, but you’d have some say.”

His words take her aback, for a second, but she manages to keep her composure as she asks: “How would this be my space?” 

“Well, other than Alexis, or maybe our parents, like, what - once a year? I just, I don’t know, assumed? That you’d be, uh, you know, using it the most? You could leave some stuff in the dresser, even, if you wanted to...” 

He’s nervous again, she can tell, and maybe it’s that, above anything else, that makes everything click. When Patrick had brought her here, all unsure about something, she’d assumed he was nervous about what she’d think _David_ would feel about this place. The way he’s looking at her now, though, implies something else, something that,maybe even just a year ago, would’ve been almost too much for her to even fathom. Even now, she doesn’t quite understand it, understand _him,_ despite all his cards being right there, splayed out in front of her in a nice, neat row.

Patrick had been nervous to get her opinion, because he wants her around. Because she’s not the only one picturing a shared future under the tiny tree on the front lawn. Because, Patrick, being the piece of shit he is, is somehow on the exact same page as she is. The future she’s been picturing, since they’ve arrived here, he’s been seeing it too. One with him and David and Stevie, and probably this cottage. He’s seeing _her,_ and he wants to make sure she’s seeing herself, too. With them.

“Patrick, is the room for me?” 

“Only if you want it,” he immediately starts, “because I’d just thought that since you might be going around for the motels or whatever - I’m not sure how the motel industry works - that when you got home you’d want to, uh, spend the night, sometimes.”

“ _I_ want that,” Stevie answers, and she watches him relax, “but that doesn’t bother you? You and David…”

“Me and David, and you. That was always the plan. From the beginning. If you still want it to be, of course.” 

She can’t help herself, she blames David’s stupid ass for turning her into this sentimental person, and launches herself into Patrick’s arms. He’s startled at first, but is quick to hold her back, tightening his arms around her. _This is nice,_ she thinks, _this could be nice for a long time_. 

When they pull back, Patrick’s nerves seem to have eased. “I take it you like the place?” 

“Oh, there’s so much to be done before I could like it. The bathroom on this floor is yellow, Patrick. It’s _piss_ yellow.” 

“I mean, it’s on brand, for a bathroom.” He shrugs, grinning.

“We haven’t even seen the basement yet.” 

“As long as it isn’t unfinished, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“What if it’s fully carpeted?” 

“Oh God,” his eyebrows fly up. “David would never recover. Yeah, yep, we should go check that out. Right now. Yep.”

He makes his way back to the stairs, this time holding a hand out for her, and she takes it, because maybe Patrick Brewer has been diligently softening her up for years, now, and maybe she’s finally letting him have his way. They get through the rest of the tour, finding that the basement is, thankfully, not fully carpeted, and holds a couple of extra rooms that Patrick is sure David will have extravagant plans for. 

Later, Stevie takes a seat by the backyard pond while Patrick and Esthelle talk about foundations and mouldings and renovation plans that she doesn’t understand at all. She knows Patrick does, though, so she doesn’t care much. Under the sun, surrounded by flowers and bushes, bathing under the promise of the future Patrick wants to build for them, she finds herself hoping, more than anything, that David will approve of this place. 

She just can’t picture herself spending the rest of life anywhere else. Not anymore. 

“So,” Patrick asks when they’re back in the car, ready to head towards her apartment for the booze and bad movies she hopes they’ll get to dig into before David has to close the store and join them, “you think it’s worth showing him?” 

“If he doesn’t want to live here, I’m making you move in with me. This place is perfect.” 

“Even with the piss bathroom?” 

“Well, yeah, because I’d be getting the en-suite.”

“Is that so?” he smirks, pulling out into the street.

“Yeah, and I don’t garden, so that backyard is yours.”

“So I’m, what, just gonna be your live-in gardener forever?” 

Stevie smiles, sparing a last glance at the cottage as they drive away, zooming past the little tree with the tiny white flowers. “Mm, yeah. Forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you didn't barf :)
> 
> Hit me up in the comments for any questions, comments, or general complaints (even if they have nothing to do with my writing). 
> 
> Bye bye!


End file.
